Seeing Green

I’ve had green beer once in my life. I was visiting Lance when I turned 21, and two days later was St. Patrick’s Day. I was staying right outside the military base he was stationed at—which, in case you’ve never seen one, is a sight in itself; barber shops and strip clubs as far as the eye can see—so on St. Patty’s Day, we went bowling and headed to a nearby bar to meet up with a few of his friends in holiday tradition. Being so close to a base meant that the male-to-female ratio was all types of askew, even more so than the dive bar normal. So it was very surprising when an older woman threw her arm around my shoulder and demanded she buy me a drink. “Thanks,” I said, as we started chatting… Or rather, I started chatting and she sort of danced through the line in a less-than-graceful manner. “What kinda beer do ya want?” she asked. “Uh, Coors please,” I responded.

She paused, turned to me and stared. “Coors? What the hell is Coors? Can’t be using local nicknames here… What a funny way to ask for a Corona.”